


no

by coffeesuperhero



Series: Lady's in Charge [3]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Play, Established Relationship, F/M, Face Slapping, Feelings, Femdom, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, Kinky, Knifeplay, Obedience, Orgasm Denial, Porn with Feelings, Slapping, Spoilers, Spoilers for Thor 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lady Sif gives Loki what he asks for. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILER WARNINGS: THIS STORY CONTAINS LOTS OF SPOILERS FOR THOR: THE DARK WORLD. REPEAT: HERE THERE BE SPOILERS AND LOTS OF THEM.**
> 
> **Notes** : Follows up on [mercy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/919120).

In the still quiet of a peaceful evening, the Lady Sif at long last takes down her hair and runs her fingers through strands that are tangled with mud and sweat. Her days, once filled with the fighting and training of young warriors, are now consumed only by rebuilding, for Odin in his displeasure at her treason has reassigned her to put back together that which he believes she has helped to take apart. 

In her more uncharitable moments, she bites back a contemptuous scowl and tries not to consider that she had better treatment at Loki's hand than at Odin's, at least until his masquerade was discovered and the old king, finally returned to the throne, banished his traitorous son to the Isle of Silence, a fitting punishment for someone whose weapon is his very tongue. 

She tries not to fall into a well of bitterness at the length of these endless days with her hands dirtied from building and building, but never fighting. She tries, truly she does, but she does not always succeed. Loki, at least, let her strengths be put to better purposes, though she has little doubt that they would have eventually turned to something nefarious, if they had not been from the start. Whatever they may have been, his machinations will be discovered in time, of that she is also certain. 

So Sif spends her days toiling beside Fandral and Volstagg on the outskirts of the city, helping their people put their homes and lives back together. It is difficult work, particularly given the air of unease that pervades Asgard these days. Loki's most recent malfeasance had mercifully been known only to a few, but the change in their king has not gone unnoticed, and she cannot be alone in uneasily longing for the brief months when Odin seemed to rule with a lighter, albeit strange, heart. 

But their king is still grieving, as are they all. Now that he is returned to them, Sif does her best to accept her punishment with grace and with the knowledge that it could be far worse, for they _had_ committed treason, no matter that they had followed Thor down a path she still believes to have been the right one. 

All of this she considers as she begins to prepare for bed, but before she can even begin to undress, from the curtains near the wide windows there is a subtle rustling and a vague change in the light's angle and color. The curtains barely shift and part before her dagger is sinking into the wall near the head of the intruder. 

"It's good to see you too, Sif," Loki's voice calls from the darkness. 

"Odin's beard," she swears. "Loki, you should _not_ be here." 

"I was only following orders, my lady," he says, spreading his hands and stepping into the light. "I believe I was told to _come home_." 

"Yes, and I suppose I should have specified that the manner of your return be something other than it was," she says, irritated. He makes to take another step, but halts his progress when she raises an eyebrow. "Why are you here?" 

He answers, but he does not look at her: his eyes follow the line of the knife embedded in her bedchamber wall, and when he reaches out and traces one finger down the flat side of the blade, any doubts she might have had about why he has come vanish in the wake of the need that has begun to throb in her veins. 

"Will you order me to leave, lady?" he asks quietly, a request for something else entirely hidden in his voice. 

"Not yet," she says, stalking closer, one foot directly in front of the other. She half expects this to be an illusion, but when she reaches him, she finds that he is real and solid. He closes his eyes at the light touch of her hand on his cheek, a caress as prelude to the harder love she has yet to give him this evening. 

"This is going to be quick," she tells him, and at the disappointed twist of his lips, she smacks him across the face. "Are you questioning my judgment?" 

"No," he says. 

"Good," she replies, and slaps him again, favoring the other side of his face. "You should be grateful for every moment of my precious time I see fit to give to you." She twists her fingers up in his long dark hair and gives it a sharp tug. "Are you?" 

"Yes, lady," he answers, as obediently as he is able, and when she slaps him once more he exhales a long grateful sigh. 

"Good," she says again, pulling her knife from the wall as his eyes track her movement with covetous anticipation. She turns the dagger over and over in her hands as she paces around him, observing with approval how straightbacked he stands now that she is watching. She leaves the knife on her bedside table, where it gleams up at them with promise. 

"Remove your clothes," she orders, and he wastes no time, for which she rewards him with a sharp smack against the back of his thighs. 

"You can speak," she tells him, for she will not bid him be silent, not this evening: there is no sound to keep him company in his exile, and she is not yet that cruel. Selfishly, she has missed the sound of his voice, the way it slides against her skin and makes her shiver. 

"Thank you," he sighs, and with the unexpected sound of gratitude in his voice, she is finished with any sort of prelude. 

"Undress me," she says, as imperiously as a queen, and when he kneels before her to unbuckle the lower pauldrons of her armor, he does so with a reverence that she feels cannot go unrewarded. When he has accomplished the task she has set, she bids him stand, barely allowing him to get to his feet before she pushes him roughly onto the bed and climbs atop him, her legs straddling his hips, brushing her inner thigh with deliberate slowness against his erection as she goes. 

The knife, when she takes it up again from its place on her bedside table, gleams in the low light of late evening. It is sharp but not overly so; she is careful to keep the point poised so as not to harm him as she draws the point up the line of his torso to his throat. She places it against his neck, just as she has done so many times before, but something in his manner arrests her movement now, gives her pause. She watches his face, studies the line of his neck, and considers the events of the last several years carefully. When he pushes his neck closer to the blade, more desperation on his face than she is accustomed to seeing, she realizes that she does not trust him with this, not tonight. Whatever he has come to her for, it cannot be this, and so she takes the knife away, tucking it securely into a compartment on the table. He opens his eyes, watching all this with a curiosity that quickly turns to pleading.

"Please," he says, the sound of it so broken that she needs no further confirmation that she has made the right decision. 

"Shh," she says, shaking her head, running her thumb over his lips. "Not tonight." 

" _Please_ ," he says again, and for answer she reaches out and pinches his nipple hard between her thumb and forefinger; he yelps in pain, but not in enjoyment. 

"I didn't ask you to beg for it," she says. "I said _no_." 

He shifts around underneath her, squirming when her fingers squeeze at him again. "Please, I need--" he tries to say, and she twists harder. 

"You _need_ to stop asking," she orders. "Or are you in charge now?"

"No," he hisses. 

"No, _what_?" she asks, pinching tightly. 

"No," he says again, grimacing at the unpleasantness her fingers have wrought, " _my lady_." 

"Acceptable," she says, and releases her hold. She leans forward, pressing her body against his; her breasts brush across his chest as his erection pushes against her abdomen, and he hisses again, but this time in pleasure. She runs her teeth up the arc of his throat before catching his lips with her own. It is a tenderly vicious kiss that she gives him, gentle lips but harder teeth, and they sigh together when she takes her lips away, returning her mouth to his throat. 

"You don't need a knife at your throat to have a weapon against it," she purrs, and he whimpers and squirms against her. 

Sif leans back and looks him over, her eyes claiming his body without the aid of her hands. 

"I suppose you have your uses," she says thoughtfully, reaching down to stroke the hard length of him. "But you interrupted my evening without permission, for which I think I cannot let you go without a reprimand. Can I?" 

"No," he moans. "You shouldn't." 

"Good," she breathes. "Now. If you _think_ about coming for me before I give you permission, you will not enjoy it. Do you understand?" 

"Yes," he answers, and she gives him no time for thought before she shifts up and forward, sinking down onto him, riding him mercilessly for her pleasure and her pleasure alone, though she knows from the noises he makes that she is not alone in her bliss. 

She waits until she knows that the ever increasing tightness of her muscles around his cock is a source of unbearable frustration before she bares her teeth and orders, " _Ask me_." 

"May I come?" he manages to say, knowing as well as she does that the answer will not be affirmative. 

"No," she says, bearing down on him harder as she lets the pleasure of her own orgasm sweep over her. When she slides off his cock, still obediently hard, he lets out a groan, but holds himself together. 

"Good boy," she says, her fingers gentle on his face as she redirects his attention back to her and away from the ache he must feel. "Are you with me?" 

"Yes," he tells her, and she nods, once, before she begins to move further up his body. 

When he realizes what she is about, he groans again and watches her hungrily as she pushes her knees into the bedding on either side of his face. 

"I wasn't finished with you yet," she says, gathering up a knot of his hair with her fingers. 

"Thank you," he says, and she favors him with a smile before she pulls his hair and issues her next command. 

"Use that clever tongue of yours to bring me pleasure," she tells him, "and I will _consider_ letting you have yours." 

"Yes, my lady," he says, and she pushes forward against his mouth, the pleased noises he makes drifting up to her through a hazy fog of her own arousal. 

She knows exactly how much it excites him to do this, and it has been many long years since she allowed him the opportunity. He has not been particularly deserving, and perhaps he still is not, but by all the stars he has a talent for this that is unrivaled among any of those she has taken into her bed. Whatever he has come here for, he is not alone in bringing some manner of longing with him, and for a moment she forgets to do anything but enjoy the pull of his mouth and the slide of his tongue. His fingers brush hesitantly at her thighs, and she opens her eyes to glare down at him until he removes them. 

"You may touch me," she says, after he takes his hands away, and with an urgency no doubt born of his own need, his fingers find her thighs again immediately, gripping hard as he pulls her more firmly against his mouth, making desperate noises against her when she cries out and lets go. 

"Ask me," she growls for the second time, pulling back with some reluctance to give him use of his voice. 

He licks the taste of her from his lips before he answers, and for that she does not know whether she should reward him or punish him. 

"May I come for you?" 

She bends to kiss him, pushing her tongue past his teeth, savoring the taste of her own body mingled with his saliva. With a slowness that she knows will be excruciating, she reaches between them to take hold of his cock, then pulls back from his mouth as her hand teases and strokes him. 

"No," she says, shaking her head, a wicked grin on her face when he closes his eyes and groans. 

She slips off of him then and stretches her body out at his side, determined to give him back all of the frustration she has felt on his account before she lets him have any release from it. She takes him up with her hand once more, using her thumb to tease him where he will feel it the most, swirling around the head of his cock in a slow, torturous rhythm. 

"Sif, please," he chokes. 

"Tell me why I should let you," she commands. "Tell me what you've done to deserve any mercy I might give you now." 

"I've tried to do what you asked," he pleads, panting between words, and she shakes her head. 

"That isn't an answer," she replies, stroking faster. "Let's try again. Why do you deserve this?" 

"I _don't_ ," he admits, and she leans closer and kisses him. 

"Ask me," she purrs into his ear. 

" _Please_ ," he gasps, "may I come for you, Lady?" 

" _Yes_ ," she hisses, and he shouts in relief as he shudders against her hand. As she releases him, he turns his face toward her, hiding against the hollow of her neck, and she brushes her lips against his temple and waits for his breathing to slow. It does not; instead it comes in shorter gasps, and her neck is damp from more than just their mingled sweat. It takes her a moment to realize that after everything that has happened, this relief has come at a cost: all his bad deeds and all of their unintended consequences have finally caught up to him, finding in this short moment of vulnerability a means of escape. 

She makes no comment, for none would suffice. There is nothing to be said, only what little comfort he will accept to be given, so she pulls him toward her, wrapping her arms around him, and flattens her palms against his back, waiting, any residual anger she felt towards him dissipating into sadness and regret while she waits and listens.

"Sleep," she whispers finally, her fingers carding gently through his hair. 

"Why?" he demands, his voice echoing against her breastbone as his hands make fists in her bedclothes. "Will it be _better_ in the morning, Sif?" 

"No," she says honestly. She pulls with care at a stubborn knot in his hair, a sad smile curling her lips. "Knowing you, Loki, it will probably be worse." 

He snorts his opinion of that into the space between her breasts, but he says nothing. 

"No one should have to endure these nightmares alone," she says, her eyes watching the shadows dance in the vault of the ceiling as she trails her hand back down to his back. 

His muscles are stiff and tense underneath her fingertips. "I don't recall telling you of any." 

"You didn't need to," she sighs, stroking his back, "for you are not the only one who has them." 

"And do you think your pain is greater?" he demands, pushing up and away from her. "I'm the villain of this tale, after all, of course I can't feel it the way the rest of you do." 

"Be whoever you will," Sif sighs. "I no longer care what part you're playing. Appreciate instead, perhaps, that I have shared with you a weakness, despite how little I trust you." 

"You did not tell me what it _was_ ," he says, settling back down against her to draw meaningless runes on her chest with his fingertips. "What nightmares would plague so fearsome a lady as you?" 

She watches his fingers move across her skin for a long while before replying, wondering how much or how little she should say. 

"It is more than one thing, but less than many," she settles for saying, and he snorts again at her non-answer. 

"Word games are more my milieu," he says haughtily. "Perhaps you should stick to swords." 

"And perhaps you should stop _dying_ ," she snaps. "How many times must we think you are lost to us?" 

She feels rather than sees the way his eyebrows lift when he speaks. "We?" 

" _Me_ ," she clarifies selfishly, and she fears she has said too much, allowed too much of her care and worry to seep through. But though he fidgets against her, he does not move to leave, and after a moment she lets out the breath she was holding, slowly exhaling as much of her renewed frustration as she is able. 

She should tell him to go, for nothing she has done tonight can be anything other than treason, but calm shared silence between them is so rare that she cannot summon the words to bid him leave her. Outside the walls of her bedchamber, they may be enemies, but here in her own sovereign space, they are something else, and she would not disturb what little time they have. 

His fingers resume their strange paths over her skin, and she wishes she could decipher them, unraveling some hidden message of returned affection, though she knows they must be only nonsense. 

"He should have at least let you attend her funeral," she says finally, and Loki's fingers stop their movements. "You've done things of late that are beyond indefensible, but she is...was..she was your mother, and she loved you. It was ill-done of him." 

He lifts his head from her chest. "Well now," he says. "It seems I have been a corrupting influence on you after all. A warrior speaking ill of the Allfather?" 

"I am not without some sense of responsibility for you after all this time," she explains. The slide of his hair is smooth underneath her fingers as she pushes through it to find the sensitive skin of his scalp, her nails scratching gently and calmly until he settles back down again. "You do enough injury to yourself without anyone's aid." 

"Except yours," he says, and the muffled sound of his voice does nothing to disguise the teasing quality of it. 

"That is different and you know it," she says, poking at his shoulder with her other hand. 

She feels his mouth curve into a smile. "Is it?" 

"If it isn't, then we will not be doing it any longer," she says, tugging on a lock of his hair, and he closes his mouth and clears his throat. "So I thought. Stop baiting me and _go to sleep_. You should not be here at all, and you will have to leave in the morning. Heimdall's good graces do not extend to you presently, and if ever they may again you must at least give the appearance of good behavior." 

He is silent, but not for long. 

"Why do you do this?" 

"Because you need me to," she answers. "And because I enjoy it, as I am sure you have suspected at some point."

"I see. So you enjoy the process, not the person," he says, his tone suddenly cold. 

"I will have you over my knee if you talk like that again," she says sternly, and he makes a noise that is equal parts amused and interested until she nudges him with her knee. "I have _you_ to deal with, and you know exactly how much trouble you cause _and_ how much you delight in it." 

"Yes," he says. "And?" 

She takes a breath and exhales her answer as quickly as she can, for it is as much an admission of love as she is ever likely to give him, and she cannot doubt that he will know it when she speaks. "I don't have time to discipline anyone else; I have my hands full with you." 

"I can't possibly be the only one," he jokes, but when she does not reply, he asks again, more seriously, "Lady?" 

"Sleep," she says firmly, ignoring the question and resolutely shutting her eyes. "If I have to tell you again, I will punish you in ways you will not enjoy." 

"You haven't found any yet," he lies, but he does at least fall silent at last. 

If they dream, they dream quietly, and he is gone when she wakes.


End file.
